The weather is so…Halifax. Which is to say, shitty. It’s raining and the everlasting wind is gusting at blow you off your feet velocity. Think Scottish Highlands kind of weather. And yes, it was very scenic in Braveheart but let’s put it this way – living in it gives me valuable insight into why the Scots are referred to as “dour.”
I make three trips on the dreaded number twenty bus today. The first is serene enough. I gaze out at the last of the brilliant yellow leaves, no one heavily perfumed or unwashed sits beside me and I get a seat that doesn’t force my knees to rest under my chin. I am listening to Neil Young sing “Helpless, Helpless, Helpless” on repeat play…which is an excellent song for a Scottish Highlands kind of day. It’s a turn around trip. A peaceful little wait by Spring Garden Park, a picturesque Victorian Garden and I’m on my way home. The wind is whipping wildly but it’s warm. My, this is going well, I’m thinking.
And then the rain begins for real. By the time I get off the bus, a quarter block from home, the sky is gushing rain and the wind is ambitiously blowing sideways. Picture stepping into your shower, fully dressed, with a coat on and a wind machine set to “high.” Soaked to the skin in under two minutes.
Well, that’s fine. Because at least I can promise myself the treat of having a tooth yanked out of my head later.
It beats reading the news though, doesn’t it? Yes, indeed.
